The Attempted Buy Off

About a week after I published the Tragedy Strikes at Target piece about Classic scent Old Spice body wash, a couple of funny things happened.  First, a comment was left by one “Woman who loves Old Spice,” stating how manly she thinks the smell is and how she hopes they never stop making said product.  Okay, maybe that’s not that funny.

A few days later, however, we here at the DK received comments and emails bearing the same email address.  This time, she revealed her identity as a Wieden + Kennedy employee (the ad agency who handles the Old Spice campaigns for Procter & Gamble) and went on to say that their client loved the piece and could they send me a bunch of OS swag to show their appreciation?  Sure.  Why not?  Who doesn’t like free shit?

But here’s what’s up.  1.) Why anyone over there enjoyed my post—which expressed my deep disappointment in their recent product changes and at least one time referred to them as ‘hacks’—is beyond me.  2.) Attempting to leave comments under the guise of a random reader when you’re actually involved in the promotion of a brand is LAME.  3.) These guys must think I’m 16 or something, and that a few lousy belt buckles and t-shirts can bring me back to 100% brand loyalty.

‘Fraid not, guys.

What they probably don’t know is that I’m a grown man, complete with a marriage, mortgage and a paid-off car to boot.  They probably don’t know that I hold a BA in advertising and have—when I chose to work in the field—enjoyed great successes in marketing.  I know exactly what they were trying to do: Buy me off.

Now, I don’t expect this or any of my previous rants to change P&G’s plans for the OS brand.  I understand that they need to appeal to a younger demographic to perpetuate the brand.  And I have worked in corporate America enough to know that ultimately it’s the shareholders they answer to.  But again—what they seem to have lost complete track of is the men who made the brand what it was in the first place.  And as for W+K?  They just advertise the shit, so I suppose they’re just doing their jobs.

But to both P&G and W+K, I say this: Thanks for the free stuff, but you completely miss the point.  The OS brand has become so diluted with myriad teenage-boy-smelling products (that After Hours sample made me gag, BTW) and very little left for those of us who loved what made Old Spice Old Spice.

Tell you what, P&G—this post might serve as one of the most unsavory cover letters you’ve ever read, but I’m always available as a hired gun for the right price.  You want to create a clear brand identity?  Want to appeal to males of all ages without alienating one age group or another?  Want to save on costs while upping volume by sharply focusing the ridiculously bloated line-up you know offer?  Drop me a line.  Let’s talk.

—Brent

More Than One Way to Skin That Annoying Guy Who Talks to You in the Restroom

I found myself in the office men’s room today, one urinal down from a supervisor. He started to chat me up, which was predictably awkward. It occurred to me that I’d once read a suggested remedy for just that situation: straight-razor slash to the cheek.

I reached for my boot, only to realize I didn’t have my straight razor. Further, I realized I didn’t even own a straight razor.

It was the first time I had ever considered this. That was about an hour ago, and all I’ve been able to think about since then is how badly I need a straight-razor.

The idea of foaming up then coolly running a pearl-handled instrument of death down my cheek for an ultra-close shave suddenly seemed extremely appealing.

Plus with one of those motherfuckers in my boot, I’d be Bad Bad Leroy Brown. I’d be Mr. Blond. I’d be goddamned Stagger Lee.

Without one, I’m the guy who has to stand there with his prick in his hand while another guy with another prick in another hand stands two feet away making small talk.

I’m buying a straight razor. And some boots.

Tragedy Strikes at Target

If it’s not obvious, I’m an Old Spice man.  Original scent thankyouverymuch.  Or Classic scent, as the marketing hacks at Procter & Gamble now call it.  While I enjoy quite a few different products, OS is always a solid go-to.

Old Spice Classic scent body wash is no exception.  In fact, it has arguably the best iteration of the old-school OS scent of any of the current products (deodorant, shaving cream, etc.).  It fills your bathroom with the masculine smells of confidence and adventure as you shower.  It delights the senses and emboldens the spirit, prepping you to go build that garage or save wayward babies from traffic.

That’s why I was dismayed to find that two of my local Target stores stopped carrying it.  While luckily I was able to deplete the stock of a nearby Walgreen’s, I fear that the product is going the way of the dodo.  After all, it only took P&G a year from introduction to kill off Classic scent body spray (which, BTW, makes for a glorious room freshener).

Yet another letdown.  Watching Old Spice follow the trajectories of Axe- and Tag-like manfumes marketed to adolescent boys is supremely disappointing.  Maybe that’s what required for the brand to stay viable with younger generations, but Jesus… What about us Original scent loyalists?  Are there really so few of us as to relegate our fancy to merely deodorant and aftershave?

I’ll be keeping an eye on this and reporting developments as they unfold.  Old Spice still features the product on its site, but disappearing store stock has me worried.  Fellow lovers of Original scent, please feel free to comment with your observations of local availability.

—Brent

Let’s Start the Convo

This is a manly blog, as a commenter once noted. So I can only assume that its readers watch manly movies.

I’m sure you can all see where this is headed — the great Miller’s Crossing versus The Dirty Dozen shaving debate.

The Dozen got their adjective by refusing to shave or shower until they got the same hot water as the officers.

But in Miller’s Crossing the great Jon Polito as Johnny Caspar offers a case for shaving cold: ”Ya put the razor in cold water, not hot — ’cause metal does what in cold? … It contracts. ‘At way you get a first-class shave every time.”

So, which is it folks? I’m a hot-water man myself, but I wonder if there are some cold-water fellas out there.

—Pat

The Most Excel-lent Cartridge Shave

In brilliant marketing practice, Gillette sends free razors to young men turning 18 years old.  I received a Sensor, Gillette’s latest offering at the time.  Through the years and like many guys, I occasionally ‘upgraded’ my razor and/or cartridges as Gillette introduced new models.  After the Sensor came the Sensor Excel.  Then the Mach 3.  Then the Mach 3 Turbo.  Then I stopped due to the ever-increasing ridiculousness of the multi-blade one-upsmanship between razor brands.  “Who the hell needs five fucking blades, for Christ’s sakes?” I thought.

Turns out I didn’t even need three.  I made the switch back to the twin-blade Gillette Sensor Excel recently, and I couldn’t be happier.

First, the razor handle and cartridges are simple, utilitarian and look nice.  No big honkin’ ‘ergonomic’ handles.  No batteries or switches with which to turn your razor into a fucking vibrator.  The Excel features only a simple, grippy, nicely weighted round handle, and a straightforward, low profile cartridge that actually allows you to see what the hell you’re doing.

Second, the shave is (wait for it…) excellent.  Like really excellent.  For years I figured I was getting superior shaves with various iterations of the Mach 3 because 1.) Gillette told me so, and 2.) more blades HAS to mean a better shave, right?  So wrong.  With decent technique, The Sensor Excel delivers unbeatable closeness.   It’s also quite comfortable; though Gillette equates more blades with greater comfort, I have experienced much less irritation and fewer ingrown hairs (read: none) since coming back to the Excel.

Third, Sensor Excel cartridges are reasonably affordable compared to the the latest blades.  A quick scan on the interweb indicates that a 4-pack of Fusion cartridges will set you back roughly 14 bones, or about $3.50 per cartridge.  I picked up a 25-pack of Sensor Excel cartridges at Costco for around $30, or about $1.20 per.  Do the math, kids – a Fusion cartridge is 292% more expensive.

Admittedly, I have never tried a Fusion.  Don’t care to.  Perhaps I’m missing the best cartridge shave of my life, but I doubt it.  As was my experience with the Mach 3, more blades were not better, and I hear similar complaints from others about the 5-blade monstrosities out there.  For me, I’ve got the Best a Man Can Get right in my bathroom cabinet, and she only sports a pair.  I can’t recommend the Gillette Sensor Excel enough.

—Brent

Quick Take: Barbasol Pacific Rush

Back in Craig’s installment on Barbasol Beard Buster, he wanted to try the new Pacific Rush variety.  Since it touts a “fresh, oceanside” scent and is from Barbasol, it’s gotta be great, right?

Meh.

Though possibly a nice break from the same-old for some Barbasol users, the scent is nothing special.  More comparable to your garden-variety “sport” cologne – generally crisp and clean, if mildly juvenile – than the sea, Pacific Rush falls flat.

Additionally, like the Original Barbasol, Pacific Rush contains no aloe or lanolin.  Sensitive mugs used to the Soothing Aloe or Skin Conditioning varieties may experience a less-comfortable shave.

Bottom line: I applaud Barbasol’s attempt to diversify, but the superior shave and classic, masculine fragrance of Soothing Aloe (my personal fave of the Barbies) will have me reaching for the green stripes once again.

—Brent

Pat is the Resurrection

Howdy Gang -

Wow.  Remember the Dopp Kit?  Thing got off to a rip-roaring start, only to fizzle out as quickly as it fired up.  What can we say?  We’re busy dudes.  Well, mostly Craig and Pat are busy dudes.

Regardless, thanks to Pat for resurrecting this old heap with yesterday’s post.  After a very long, tough winter here in the Mitten, I’m coming out of my shell and ready to contribute again also.  I’d wager to say Craig can find a few moments to share his latest insights as well.

Thanks again, Pat. Welcome back to the Dopp Kit, all.

—Brent

For That Squeaky-clean Feeling

I wash with whatever bar soap is on sale. I never use “product” in my hair. I don’t even own a comb. I use my fingers.

I don’t give a shit about personal grooming products. Maybe I oughta—lord knows the ladies seem to prefer a well-moisturized fella these days—but I don’t.

With one exception.

I love Dr. Bronner’s castille soap (I usually get peppermint, but the almond is nice too). It’s the stuff in the big bottle with the crazy proselytizing script covering every inch. And, yes, I recognize that this label, which mentions “spaceship earth” in several places, can be a turnoff to those like me who tend to shut down at the first mention of anything new-agey. But there’s also something old-tyme-medicine-showy about the whole thing that redeems it. It’s almost messianic, too, which makes for good reading.

And if you look a little closer, that same label spells out the magic that makes Dr. Bronner’s my favorite item in the personal-care section of any store: You can use it as a shampoo or a floor cleaner.

You can do dishes or laundry with it. You can use it as a regular soap, and you can brush your teeth with it. It can function as a natural “pest spray,” deodorant, shaving foam or pet shampoo.

I bet it makes a hell of a cocktail when you add dark rum and Swiss Miss powder. But, seriously: shampoo and floor cleaner in one! This must be the product Tom Waits is shilling in “Step Right Up” … you know, “It disinfects, it sanitizes for your protection/It gives you an erection/It wins the election/Why put up with painful corns any longer?”

I’ve used it on my hair, gotten out of the shower and mopped my kitchen floor with it. By the time the floor is done, my hair is almost dry. And that’s when I love ol’ Doc Bronner the very most. Because that’s when I can run my fingers through my hair and actually hear it squeak. I mean it; it fucking squeaks! My hair: literally squeaky clean.

And my floor smells like peppermint.

—Pat

On the Margins: Personal Experience with Sideburns

I generally steer clear of people whose necks are more than 25 percent tattoo-covered, but the sidewalk outside the Safeway was narrow and we were headed right toward each other. This wiry twenty-something gentleman, whose excited smile was as yellow as his wife-beater tank top, was going to say something to me. I just knew it.

“You look exactly like someone,” he shouted. “Yeah, someone famous.”

Then to a fat woman across the parking lot — his common-law wife perhaps — “Hey, who does this guy look like?”

I knew the guy he was thinking of, but I didn’t want to help him out. I just shrugged and smiled and walked by him. It was hot and I had limes to buy; cachaca drunk straight is intolerable.

But I digress.

Because of my high-school-football-player-gone-soft physique, my sunglasses and my mini-fro-bushy-sideburns combo, I am often told that I remind people of noted slapsticker Jack Black.

Jables, despite his generally positive public reception, is not considered a particularly good-looking man. But I never let comparisons to this non-good-looking celebrity get me down because, really, I don’t look that much like him. It’s just the shaggy sideburns.

Something about sideburns makes people without them think that anyone with them looks like anyone else with them. I’ve been called Elvis a few times, too. And if I ever hung out with drunken 20th-century historians, I’m sure I’d occasionally be the target of a slurred, “Hey, guys, check out George McGovern.” I look as much like him as I do Jack Black or Elvis.

So that’s the bad part.

The good part is that people with sideburns tend to like other people with sideburns — creating sort of a brotherhood of the hairy-cheeked. It’s not that sideburns connote any specific personality traits — like, if someone has a mustache you know he’s probably either a biker, a porn star or a douche bag (or my dad, who is none of those other things). But there is a kinship among us. Maybe we all just sort of subconsciously bond over having been called Elvis for our entire adult lives; I’m not sure.

The point is: Yeah, I have to deal with the occasional looky-loo telling me I’m the spitting image of Jack Black or George McGovern or whoever, but I also have something on the sides of my face that bestows membership in a pretty cool club.

—Pat

Perhaps I Spoke Too Soon

OK. I stand by my assertion that the Jack Palance Skin Bracer commercial is the greatest of all time. Admittedly, the reasons for that are largely sentimental. But while it may be the best, THIS commercial is also totally, completely, utterly unstoppable. Trust me, you’ve never seen anything like it. Please enjoy responsibly.

—Brent

BEST. COMMERCIAL. EVER.

At long last, someone has posted the greatest after shave commercial ever produced and, arguably, the best commercial of any kind ever to grace the airwaves.  Indeed, my pal Tony and I scoured the internet for YEARS looking for this.  It’s like Christmas in fucking July.  Enjoy.

—Brent

The Death of the Goatee

From mid-high school to mid-college, I wore a goatee. In the early days it was an untamed mass at the chin, a clutch of blue-black, tightly curled wires. I was proud of my goatee, proud that I could grow one and proud that I could maintain one. It wasn’t easy. Balance is the key. If you shave too much or too little on one side, you stop looking like Maynard G. Krebs from The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis and start looking like a recent escapee from the sex offender’s wing of a high-security prison.

That danger is part of the goatee’s allure. Once you’ve invested the days or weeks it takes to grow one, you then must commit to exerting a master’s concentration while shaving. The man who consistently pulls off a balanced goatee has a clear eye and a steady hand. That’s a man you can trust.

But no longer. Because now, some entrepreneur has gone and invented the GoateeSaver, training wheels for the unskilled shavist. I don’t quite know how it works, because it’s stupid, but a “man” basically affixes a device to his face that creates a perfect goatee boundary, ensuring that the razor won’t take off too much on one side.

I can’t argue with the aesthetic results. So long as you’re intelligent enough to stick the GoateeSaver on the center of your face, you’ll end up with a balanced, well-rounded goatee. But at what cost? The loss of a daily exercise in manual dexterity? The antiquation of pride in the free-hand grooming a perfect goatee? The fact that every morning you have to wear something that looks like a pacifier in a David Cronenberg movie?

Yes. All of that.

And more: The GoateeSaver is antithetical to everything The Dopp Kit stands for, namely the ultimate freedom a man has when he runs a deadly sharp razor against his throat and face. If you shave with a GoateeSaver, that goatee is no longer yours. It belongs to the people who run GoateeSaver Co. LLC of Little Rock, Ark. You don’t determine the shape and balance, they do. At that point, why not just shave corporate logos into your beard?

Remember, men: Your face is yours and yours alone. Don’t allow shaving-industry creep to overtake your mug!

(But if anyone wants to go into business for a sideburn mold, call me!)

Yarr! She Burns Like Hell, Matey!

Out of Dominica’s bay rum and interested in trying other brands this summer, I was pleased to find Pinaud Clubman Virgin Island Bay Rum at my local Walgreen’s.  Coming in at about $7 for a 12-oz. bottle, I couldn’t resist.  Though I’ve logged less than 24 hours with this after shave, I already feel compelled to offer up a review:

The Ingredients: Unlike my beloved Dominica, there don’t appear to be many natural ingredients in the Pinaud.  In fact, the ingredient list (and some of the ingredients themselves) is mildly disturbing.  But hell, this is a manly after shave, and real men scoff at danger.

The Scent: Spicy.  Pinaud’s offering has long been popular among bay rum lovers, and I can see why.  Its fragrance is assertive and masculine, heavy on cinnamon and clove.  Upon taking a whiff, Mandy immediately reported “It smells like a pirate ship.”  I’d have to agree.  The scent settles down quickly, but retains more presence and lasts longer than the all-natural stuff.

Uses: Like many bay rums, Pinaud promotes this as “a classic all-purpose fragrance,” and encourages the user to “splash freely all over the body.”  I took that advice following this morning’s shower, which leads me to the next point…

The Burn.  Dear God, the Burn: The burn of Pinaud Virgin Island Bay Rum is legendary.  It burned upon application to my face yesterday, though it had been hours since I shaved.  Hell, it burned my face this morning though I hadn’t shaved at all.  But the really disconcerting sensation followed the all-over application.  Sweet Moses, my huevos were set alight in a manner exceeded only by toxic dollar-store Gold Bond and Ben-Gay knockoffs.  I can only imagine how this stuff is gonna feel directly following a shave.  Not for the faint-hearted.

The Packaging: Awesome.  I have to take off points for the plastic bottle, but the shape, cap, labeling and colors are glorious.  With a sails-down galleon gracing the label and the liquor bottle shape, the packaging exudes the imagery associated with bay rums and well, actual rums for that matter.

The Bottom Line: I had reservations about this after shave – especially with all the more natural bay rums out there that consistently receive rave reviews – but I’m pleasantly surprised and this will surely find a spot in my rotation.  With its classic, lasting scent, its hellfire burn and aesthetically appropriate packaging, Pinaud Bay Rum is well worth the money.

-Brent

Notions of Masculinity in a Postmasculine Grooming Era

When my friend Craig first pointed me to this blog, a new project of his, I told him it was stupid. In fact, I believe I referred to The Dopp Kit as “like the section of Esquire I skip over every month.”

It’s not that I don’t care about my appearance. It’s just that — like every decent Midwesterner — I feel horribly uncomfortable admitting that I care about my appearance. It doesn’t matter how manly today’s lotions and gels are; they’re still lotions and gels. And decent people just don’t talk about that kind of thing.

In the ensuing weeks, however, I’ve found myself checking The Dopp Kit more than I expected. And when I read Brent’s brilliant essay on lake shaving — what could be more masculine than that? — I felt compelled to add to the discourse.

Which brings us to the crux of the matter, the heart of the thing, the brass tacks: barber shops and why they remain culturally relevant.

I have this debate with my girlfriend all the time. She doesn’t get it, but I cannot, I explain to her, get a haircut at a salon or a stylist. I must go to a barbershop, and the experience must include:

• A barber pole outside, preferably a real one not one that’s just painted on the window.
• A barber, preferably an elderly gentleman whose political beliefs are far to the right of my own.
• At least one dead animal on the wall. It can be a fish — I’m not particular — but I recently got a haircut from a guy in Idaho who had a stuffed cougar mounted on the wall. Great haircut. And, yes, he had killed the big cat himself and eaten it. It’s like pork, he said.
• Sports magazines.
• Hot shaving cream.

There’s logic in this list of must-haves, even if it’s not at first apparent.

Most importantly, experience has taught me that I tend to get better cuts from these kind of chop joints. I have, under trying circumstances, gone to salons and stylists, and the results have been invariably disastrous. I tell them from the jump that I don’t want any kind of product in my hair. They usually ask how I can style it without product. And I usually just tell them not to worry about me; I’ll be fine. What I really want to say is, “I don’t ’style’ it. It’s my fucking hair. I get it cut and then leave it alone for another three months. I comb it with my fingers, for christ’s sake.”

And, of secondary import, I like the barbershop because it’s manly. And I am not. I am of a generation of “men” who don’t know how to build a bookcase or repair an engine. I am normally OK with this. But sometimes I get these vestigial urges toward old-school masculinity. I want to howl at the moon, roll up a pack of cigarettes in the sleeve of my grease-stained T-shirt and drink so much whiskey I can barely make it to my job at the docks the next morning. But make it I will, because I’m a man and a man does his day’s work, damn it.

Anyway, I think that’s why I like barbershops.

—Pat

The Problem with Nose Hair

Left unattended, my nose hair eventually will reach out at you from each nostril, as thick and bountiful as a late-summer corn field. This poses me all manner of problems, one being that it encourages my awful habit of proboscis exploration. There are times when I become fixated on yanking out a particularly troublesome stalk. Back when I worked at a business magazine in Cleveland, I would sit in the relative solitude of my office, gouging away, a junkie unable to stop himself. I remain shocked that I made it two years without someone walking in while I was knuckle deep.

But this post isn’t about my crippling nose-picking addiction, it’s about my horrendous nose-hair problem. Which brings me to my great shame surrounding how I deal with those particular whiskers: I use a battery-driven trimmer. My shame arises from a remark by a reporter during a conversation way back when I was at The Roanoke Times in Virginia. We were discussing lawn care, and I asked him if he used an edger.

“Naw,” he said. “That’s too specialized an implement. It’s not manly enough, sort of like a nose-hair trimmer.”

“Oh, yeah,” I bluffed. “Who’d use that?”

I went back to my desk and looked at my nose in the reflection of my computer screen. Not manly? But, sweet mercy, how else can I beat back this quiver of nose arrows? I quickly decided to forget all about it, figuring if I just didn’t talk about it, I wouldn’t have a problem. And so, every week or so, for the past five years, I’ve continued to jam the trimmer up the old left and right.

But now that I’m an editor of a male-grooming blog it’s time for me to explore other options. Plus, I bet that Brent deals with his nose hair in some macho way like using a blowtorch. So I’m going to invest in some clippers, and see if I can’t do battle with the kudzu in my schnozzola the old-fashioned way. Expect a follow-up report in a week or so, assuming I don’t accidentally shove a sharp end into my frontal lobe.

- Craig